


Long Term Effects

by Deductions_in_Entropy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26944153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deductions_in_Entropy/pseuds/Deductions_in_Entropy
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes gets drugged by a suspect mid-pursuit, John realizes that Sherlock has not been keeping up with his end of the bargain when it comes to 'no more secrets'.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

John presses his back up against the walls of the stairwell, waiting for Sherlock’s cue. The suspect had already strangled 3 people in the last 48 hours. Getting cocky about his success, Marone was in the process of trying to claim his 4th victim. 

Sherlock, having deduced that Marone’s targets were all recently at the same alumni event together was able to track his movements to the primary school where the 4th target, Ms. Westbrook, was a teacher. It was half past 4, so thankfully no students are around. It does however make the perfect timing for an attack. Something Marone is counting on. 

Sherlock’s hand grabs the door handle in a flash and suddenly they are off. Sherlock bolts after the man in the black hoodie, tearing down the corridor. 

“The Teacher!” Sherlock shouts, and John runs in the opposite direction of Sherlock toward her classroom to ensure Marone hasn’t already got to her. 

Just before he gets to the door, Lestrade and Donovan turn the corner and run towards him. Without hesitation, John bursts through the classroom door. Shocked by the unexpected noise, Ms. Westbrook screams. A quick glance is all John needs. She is completely fine.

Now that that crisis is averted, John needs to find Sherlock. John pivots and starts running back the way he came. 

“Donovan, stay with Ms. Westbrook” Lestrade shouts as he tries to catch up with John. He retraces Sherlock’s steps, reaching the end of the corridor he had turned down only to find another set of stairs, these ones apparently leading to the roof. Taking them two at a time, he reaches the door to the roof which is hanging slightly ajar. He pushes it open and his blood runs cold as he sees Sherlock lying motionless on the ground.

“Sherlock!” He screams. “Oh, God. Sherlock!” He collapses on the ground beside him. John grabs his shoulder and gives it a slight shake. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter as he tries to stay awake and focus on what’s happening.

“Sherlock, can you hear me? What happened? Sherlock?” John says in a panic. 

“Snuck up on me. Got me.” Sherlock slurs, clutching at his scarf. John makes quick time of pulling his scarf off and examining Sherlock’s neck. A single red-purple dot darkens his skin a few inches above his right collarbone.

“He’s been injected with something. Call an ambulance!” John shouts to Lestrade who has just caught up.

“Mmm. ’Twas only a matter of time” Sherlock sighs.

“What? What do you mean? Sherlock, stay with me.” John demands as he takes his pulse.

Sherlock spit out a dark laugh “-wish you meant that-” He cuts off as he lets his eyes drift close, no longer wanting to fight the impending sleep.

“What? What do you mean?” Sherlock, don’t you dare. Don’t go to sleep” he says sternly as he checks his pupils for irregularities.

Sherlock winces at the unwelcomed light and groans. “I know, I know. The space…” 

“Space, what? Since when do you care about Space? I thought you deleted most of that.” John tries to keep Sherlock engaged in the conversation to keep him awake. 

“You can have it. You can have Baker Street.” Sherlock reaches out towards John, almost touching his cheek but abandons the gesture as a look of confusion flashes across his face.

Panic creeps into John throat. “Sherlock Holmes, you are NOT going to talk like that, you are gonna be fine.”

“Course, I will. I’m not dying.” Sherlock says indignantly. “ But there’s not enough space!” He breathes, sounding utterly defeated. “It’s fine. You can have Baker Street. I’ll go somewhere….” He waves his arms around dramatically, “else.” 

“What-“ John was cut off by the sudden arrival of the ambulance. He clears his throat and switches into doctor mode, giving the EMTs all the information he has about Sherlock's condition.

Sherlock fades in and out of consciousness on the ride to the hospital eventually settling into a stupor that has John on edge, but focusing on the steady rhythm of his vitals helps stop the panic that is threatening to overtake him. 

There was nothing that could be done until he was in hospital and had a tox screen, so John tries to distract himself from all the various thoughts on what Marone could have drugged him with. 

He squeezes Sherlock’s hand though he knows he’s not conscious enough to feel it. He’s going to be fine. His vitals are good. Probably just some kind of tranquilizer like Irene Adler used. Sherlock himself said he was going to be fine, and well, if Sherlock Holmes says it, then it must be true. 

John thinks back on the conversation he had with Sherlock. Was he trying to tell him anything about where Marone went or was he just rambling? Why did he keep talking about space and Baker Street?

It’s with a sudden, deep pang that John understands what Sherlock was talking about. His drug addled brain must have been bringing up a concern he had been hiding to the forefront of his mind. Only speaking it now because of the lack of inhibitions the drugs gave him. 

John had asked time and time again if it was alright that he and Rosie had moved back into Baker Street. Sherlock had been unreasonably accommodating. Body parts no longer took up a home in the refrigerator, experiments no longer littered the kitchen table in the reach of tiny toddler hands that were somehow experts at finding just the things they shouldn’t grab. Even the violin had a curfew and would no longer peel its melody up the stairs at all hours of the night when Sherlock was on a case and needed to think. It didn’t go unnoticed how much of Sherlock’s routine had been disrupted by John and Rosie moving back into Baker Street and on more than one occasion John had asked if it was alright that they were there. Sherlock had scoffed and done his usual “Obviously,” and John had left it at that. 

Now, hearing Sherlock’s drug induced ramblings admitting that he felt like there wasn’t enough space made his stomach turn. They were imposing. They were imposing enough that Sherlock was talking about leaving his home just to get some space.

John felt like he had all the air knocked out of him. Everything was going to have to change. He was going to lose the singular tether he had to his absurd version of normalcy. Again.

He needed a drink.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m remembering the governor” Sherlock says as he begins his countdown, pointing the gun under his chin. He tries to hide the wavering in his hands, but his body is betraying him. He knows that this is his only option, but that doesn’t make him any less scared. He doesn’t want to die, but he knows he can’t live with himself with the alternative option.

“2… 1…” Sherlock takes a breath and squeezes the trigger. He screams in surprise as the deafening sound of the gun echoes in the room. Sherlock gasps for breath, trying to reorient himself and make sense of what happened.

“Interesting. Truly.” Eurus cocks her head to the side as she stares at him through the monitor looking deeply fascinated.

“It was a blank…” Sherlock mutters, trying to regain his composure.

“After being presented with the critical facts and a nearly identical experiment just minutes ago, you failed to draw the connection between your actions and the consequences. You failed to choose one, so I’m afraid you get neither.”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes just in time to see them widen before John falls to ground as 2 more gunshots ring through the tiny room.

~~~~

Sherlock wakes up with as gasp. It had been 3 months since the events of Sherrinford had taken place, and he still has nightmares about it. He’s covered in sweat and his lungs aching for air. His panic doesn’t dissipate as he realizes that his surroundings are not as he expected. The florescent overhead lights are blinding and the smell of antiseptic overwhelming. He’s not in his bed. He’s in a hospital. Why? What happened?

“Sherlock?” A familiar voice says, and he relaxes a bit. John is here. “Sherlock, you with us? You okay?”

“Considering I’m laying in a hospital bed, I’d venture to say no.” Sherlock quips, gaining the expected half laugh from John. “What happened?”

“Do you not remember? You went after Marone on your own, and when I got to the roof, he had drugged you with something. We had no idea what it was.” John tells him.

Sherlock stares at the ceiling intently, trying to remember. “The last thing I remember was the cab ride to the school.” Sherlock confesses, still slightly short on breath. “What drug?”

“Some kind of barbiturate. Lab’s still running tests to confirm what exactly it was, but they’re pretty sure you’ll be fine. No long term effects.”

At this point, Sherlock has oriented himself enough to look at John. Based on the state of the creases in his shirt and the slump of his shoulders, he’s been sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair for no less than 4 hours. His worry lines more prominent than usual.

“Ah, well then. You should go home. Seems silly for you to miss putting Rosie to bed on my account.” Sherlock hopes that by mentioning Rosie, John will take the bait and head back home.

“Do you really think I’m that thick?” John smirks.

“What? Consistent bedtimes are imperative for healthy early childhood development!” Sherlock decides to play the innocent card.

“Do you really think that I can be tricked into going home so that you can then go leave A.M.A.?”

Clearly he had been teaching John too well.

“You’re staying until you’re cleared by a doctor who isn’t me.” John says with a slight edge of his captain voice, shutting down any protest that Sherlock was preparing to make.

Sherlock groans and throws his head back into the pillow. “Fine. If I’m trapped here for god knows how much longer, can you at least find me a cup of tea?”

“That one, I can do.” John says with a laugh.

Though there are many things about John Watson that baffle Sherlock and constantly keep him guessing, there’s one thing that he can always tell: when John’s lying. As John gets out of the creaky hospital chair to go scavenge whatever poor excuse for tea he can find in a hospital wing, Sherlock can see the smile John has put on isn’t genuine and doesn’t reach his eyes.

Something’s wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is typing away on John’s laptop, trying to pinpoint Marone’s next move. He underestimated him before, not a move he is willing to make again. In fairness, Marone had seemed exceptionally ordinary. A medical technician with no family and few acquaintances, limited social media presence, typical spending habits. No addictions, known mental illness, or affinities for violent media. It didn’t make sense. According to Ms. Westbrook, Steven Marone was just a former classmate she hadn’t seen in the 5 years since they graduated. What was his motive? Clearly he had managed to slip the medication used to drug Sherlock from work, but why did he have it on hand? None of his prior victims had been drugged.

Sherlock knows he needs to understand whatever Marone’s driving force is before he engages him again. Before he gets a chance to really delve in and give it more thought, tiny whimpers are heard over the crackle of the baby monitor which has now become a habit of Sherlock’s to turn on when he knows John has had a particularly rough night.

Sherlock sets his laptop aside and quietly sneaks up the stairs, avoiding the floorboard on the seventh stair that creaks. He opens the door silently and sees Rosie standing at the side of her cot. Upon seeing him, she raises her little hands in a grabbing motion, beckoning him to pick her up. Sherlock obliges and waits until they have successfully descended the stairs without waking John to bury his face in her curls with a kiss.

“Good morning, Watson.” He smiles at her. “We’re gonna let daddy sleep a bit longer, so you and I are going play, alright?” Rosie giggles as Sherlock kisses her hair once more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John squints his eyes open as the sun streams in from the window. He blinks a few times before realizing it’s much too bright in the room. He would have expected Rosie to have woken him up hours ago…

John sits up with a start, realizing Rosie isn’t in her cot. He scrambles out of bed and rushes to the door when he hears the peal of his daughter’s laughter from the living room mixed with Sherlock’s quiet baritone, though he can’t quite make out what he’s saying. She’s fine. Sherlock has her.

John sits back on his bed for a moment to collect himself and slow his racing heartbeat before going downstairs.

When John finally makes his way down the stairs he sees Sherlock holding a book, reading to Rosie, making dramatic faces and voices for each of the characters causing her to giggle.

On hearing John enter the room Sherlock turns his attention from Rosie for a moment. “John.” He greets, “I thought you could use a few more hours sleep after yesterday.” He gives John a small smile before turning back to Rosie.

“Right, yeah. Thanks for that.” John says, trying to sound sincere. Sherlock’s eyes flick over to John’s face for a moment but he doesn’t say anything and somehow that makes the guilt worse.

 _Brilliant. Just brilliant, all of it._ John thinks with a scowl. “Tea?” John asks as gestures to the kitchen, desperate for a distraction and making tea seems to be the one thing that he can’t possibly mess up.

“Yes, thanks.” Sherlock responds between making another funny voice that sends Rosie into shrieks of laughter. A sight that would usually cause his heart to warm sends John sulking into the kitchen feeling utterly lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock would have never thought it possible that a toddler would bring him so much joy to interact with, but making Rosie smile and giggle made him happier than he could have ever imagined. Her little mind, so inquisitive, always investigating, was always looking to satisfy some inherent curiosity. He could sit with her for hours without getting bored as she learned more and more about the world.

When he really thought about it, these last few weeks had been the happiest he had been in years. Like salve on a wound. Of course, he knew it was only temporary, an obvious conclusion given the limitations of Baker Street. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that there would come a time when John could no longer share a room with Rosie and they would need to leave Baker Street. A fact that has been omnipresent in the back of Sherlock’s mind, nagging at him whenever he feels like he is truly at peace. Mostly, he tried not to think about it. He’d cross that bridge when they got there, though he had toyed with the idea of possible renovations that could be done to 221C.

Sherlock pushes the thought out of his head. The afternoon sunlight was already sitting lower in the sky than Sherlock expected. He had slipped into his mind palace shortly after Rosie went down for a nap and was not expecting it to be so late in the day.

Sherlock looks over at John who has been suspiciously quiet for most of the day. He sits, typing away on his laptop, presumably working on the blog, but a deep furrow in his brow indicates that may not be the case.

“All right?” Sherlock asks startling John, who seems to click out of whatever he was looking at on the computer.

“Right, yeah. Fine.” He says, but Sherlock can tell he’s lying.

“Sure?” Sherlock presses.

“Yeah, just surprised me is all.” John says with smile that doesn’t reach his eyes before stretching. “I think I’ve been staring at the screen too long anyway. I think I’m going to go take Rosie for a walk in the park.” He says as he closes his laptop. Sherlock’s eyes follow him hesitantly.

He and John had explicitly agreed that they wouldn’t keep secrets from each other anymore, knowing the kind of chaos that those secrets could cause, so why is John keeping something from him? Sherlock felt the same nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach that he felt at the hospital. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just watches John in confusion laced with a hint of panic.

“Anything from Lestrade on Marone?” John says as he shrugs on his jacket, seemingly feeling Sherlock’s gaze and silence.

“No. Nothing yet. I’ll do some more research this evening. Perhaps there’s something I missed” Sherlock says lightly, still combing over John for any kind of deduction he could make on what was causing this secretive mood.

“Good luck. Text me if you need anything.” John says as he heads out the door, Rosie on his hip.

Sherlock didn’t like that at all. John is clearly fleeing. John doesn’t flee, it’s not his style. He faces danger head on, to a fault even. So why is he avoiding him? He waits until he’s sure John is well beyond turning back distance and grabs John’s laptop. What was he so startled and eager to close once Sherlock started paying attention again? With a few clicks, Sherlock checks the browser history.

It hits him like a ton of bricks. Flat adverts. He has been looking at flat adverts.

John is going to leave. Again.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock is panicking. Even though he could easily identify what was happening, it didn’t make it any less debilitating. His breath felt like it was being ripped from his chest in violent bursts. Hyperventilating. His pulse thundered in his ears, sweat covered his brow.

He knew this was going to happen. There had been a 0% probability that things would continue in the same manner that they had been. So why is his transport betraying him like this? This was inevitable, really. He had lived on his own for years and years before meeting John, he was more than capable of doing it again.

Right?

Not right. Sherlock knew what kind of person he was when left to his own devices. He knew how many close scrapes he had before John was involved, how little regard he had given for his own life. If he was being honest with himself, that was the crux of where his panic was coming from.

Sherlock had always valued the work above everything else. It was above menial tasks like eating and sleeping. It was certainly above sentiment. Sentiment just got in the way, impaired people’s judgement, lead them into compromising situations that should have logically been avoided.

But John… John was something new. Somehow this danger seeking doctor, who was a walking contradiction in all that he did, entered the field and caused everything to shift. John, who was a doctor who went to war, a healer and a fighter.

John was his foil; he stood for all the things that Sherlock thought the work was above and somehow _it worked_. The tricky part was that it worked too well, and now sentiment had somehow creeped in and made an unwilling home in Sherlock.

This wasn’t new information. He had known this for a very long time, since their first case, if he really thought about it. He would go to the ends of the earth for John Watson. _And he had_. The only thing keeping him alive during his 2 years away was the thought of keeping John safe and returning to the only glimpse of happiness Sherlock had ever really known in his life. Those months before the fall had not been perfect by any stretch, but for the first time, he felt the wisps of what happiness _might_ feel like touching his soul. For the first time, he felt like his life mattered for something other than by being a vessel for the work. If he had to choose between keeping John safe and the work, he would chose John every time. Without hesitation. He loved him. He loved John Watson.

The true irony of the man who never cared before only to find he cares the most.

Vicious sentiment. He knew this had been a bad idea from the start, yet here he sits, head on his knees, gasping for breath at the thought of being left alone again. _How disappointingly predictable._

Sherlock works to calm down his breathing just enough so he can go to his mind palace and focus on literally anything else right now. After all, this wasn’t the same as when he was married. He wouldn’t disappear for weeks at a time with no word because ‘life got in the way’ again, right? Sherlock bit his lip, his brain registering a metallic taste. That’s exactly what was going to happen. He has a life; he has a job and child. The thought of Rosie sent him into fresh waves of panic.

He’d grown so attached the Rosie in the last few months. Somehow this incredibly small human gave him so much joy to spend time with. Her curiosity about everything she interacted with and her unrestrained joy sent a jolt through him every single time. Every day, they sat down for story time, something Sherlock would never have imagined himself doing, but he found it was a part of the day he looked forward to most. Excitement typically reserved for locked room murders flooded his veins every time she surpassed a new developmental milestone. The thought of missing those milestones…

He needed to get a handle on himself. This was unacceptable. He had no right to act like this. To feel like this. He loved them both dearly and would just need to accept whatever happened. As soon as John got home, they would just need to discuss. Perhaps they could come up with an interim solution? Sherlock focused on calming down his breathing once again so he could go to his mind palace to strategize.

~~~~~~~

The front door slams shut, rousing Sherlock from his mind palace with a start. Heavy footsteps stomp up the stairs much too slowly. Sherlock glanced at the window: A few minutes passed sundown, John should have been home by now. The gait was wrong for John. Too clumsy and too even to be John carrying Rosie on his hip. Who would be entering the flat without knocking? It wasn’t anyone he knew. Surely not a client.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins; he was in no condition to fight off any intruder, still not fully recovered from his earlier panic attack. Sherlock pauses for a moment, realizing there’s something familiar about the footfalls. A second later, the door to the flat opens and John trudges in, without Rosie in tow.

“John?” Sherlock asks incredulously and worried something's wrong.

“Yep. That’s me. Brilliant deduction” John says with a slight laugh, again with that smile that’s so clearly put on. A quick glance over his person explains the peculiar gait. He’s drunk.

“Where’s Rosie?” Sherlock asks, immediately with a much harder edge to his voice.

“With Molly. Figured it’d be best to take her up on the offer to take Rosie for a few nights while I just get a few things sorted,” John shrugs as he pours himself a drink in the kitchen.

Sherlock crosses his arms and approaches. “Does getting things ‘sorted’ involve getting pissed before the sun is down?” Sherlock snaps, unable to contain the unreasonable rage that was seeping into his voice. If we was going to leave so soon, John should at least have the decency to be sober for the last few days. However many days that would be…

“Piss off, Sherlock.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock says, half indignant, half surprised.

“Just piss off! Go do an experiment or whatever and just pretend I’m not even here. You’re good at that.”

Sherlock flinches.

“That’s bound to be pretty difficult considering the state you’re in, which will likely become worse considering the glass of scotch in your hand. I did have a matter I wanted to discuss-” he says with a calculatedly calm tone.

“Oh, are we actually going to talk about things that are on our mind now?” John asks with a mocking tone.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” His calm tone now gone.

John laughed without humor, “I knew I should have stayed at the bloody pub. I knew coming back was a mistake.”

“Well, if you’re so keen to leave, then just get on with it!” Sherlocks spits.

“I’m trying to! As fast as I bloody can!” John roars, unable to hold back his temper.

Sherlock felt his blood run cold. He had miscalculated.

This wasn’t about space or Baker Street at all. John was trying to get away from _him_. He was the thing that John was so desperate to escape.

He felt like he’d been shot again, pain radiating in his chest, in a way he’d never quite experienced before. He had been so sure that caring was a disadvantage and sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. He had been right.

And now he had lost.

He can’t do this. It’s too much. The panic from earlier pales in comparison to what he feels beginning to wash over him. He can’t stay here. He needs to escape.

Without thinking, Sherlock takes off downstairs and throws his Belstaff over his shoulders before disappearing into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock thinks it fascinating the level of detachment he is able to feign as he knocks on Molly’s door. Years of playing roles and undercover work are playing heavily in his favor tonight. He’s just got to keep the act up. After a moment, Molly opens the door, and blinks in surprise followed by a quick smile.

“Sherlock. I didn’t—“ she began.

“Just wanted to pop by. May I come in?” Sherlock cuts her off, never dropping the put on pleasantries.

“Uh, yeah. Of course. Sorry about the mess. I’ve got Rosie, but you probably already knew that…”

“Yes.” Sherlock brushes past her and finds his way to the living room, where Rosie could be heard laughing and knocking her building blocks about. Upon seeing Rosie, his strategic detachment crumbles almost immediately, and he can feel a sting in his eyes, threatening to betray him. Molly would notice; she always noticed him. He’d have to be quick about this, then.

“Hello, Watson.” Sherlock says, keeping the plastered on smile, but consciously aware of the emotion that was betraying him in his voice. Rosie babbles excitedly when she sees him and knocks down the blocks she had just stacked on top of one another. She erupts in a fit of giggles and claps her tiny hands together in excitement. Sherlock laughs along with her, though it feels like his throat is filled with cotton.

There’s no way he is going to get out of this unseen. To hell with it then. He scoops her up and kisses her hair. “You’re so precious.” He whispers into her hair. “You’re going to grow up and be the best of all of us. I just know it.” He pauses a moment before putting her down, taking in as much data as he can. Before he moves away completely, he swoops back around and begins tickling her, causing a fresh peal of laughter. He’d surely have a lot of reorganization to do in his mind palace after tonight, and he wanted to make sure he had Rosie’s laugh stored away one last time.

“Sherlock…?” Molly asks, concern clearly cutting into her voice. “Is everything alright?” She knows it’s not, no point in lying about it.

“John and I had a bit of a falling out.” Sherlock says clearing his throat, trying to clear the emotion that was on the brink of overwhelming him. “I just wanted to make sure I got a chance to say goodbye to her.” Even with all the focused effort, his voice cracks at the end of his sentence. He stands back up and can’t bear to meet Molly’s eyes. 

“What? What happened? Surely it can’t be that bad, Sherlock. I mean, before…” Molly says, panicked.

“This isn’t like before, I—It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock says as he pulls the collar up on his coat. “Thank you, Molly.” Sherlock says as he rushes towards the door, hoping to escape Molly’s prying eyes before she understands the true gravity of the state he is in, though he is fairly certain he has already been seen.

“No. Sherlock, wait!” She shouts, but she isn’t fast enough and Sherlock slips out into the night.

* * *

John is sitting on the floor of the bathroom, fully clothed as the shower runs, pressing his palms against his eyes in an attempt to stop burning tears which he has not been able to control since Sherlock stormed off. His stomach is in knots. No matter what he does, somehow it’s always wrong. Somehow he manages to make a mess of everything.

He feels his phone vibrate, but he can’t muster up enough energy to care and doesn’t bother to check to see who it is.

Everything is a disaster. Ever since Mary died, things had been off with Sherlock. It was as if they were no longer on the same wavelength. Everything felt so… measured. Cautious. Of course it was his own fault. How could it not be? Sherlock clearly just didn’t trust him anymore. Quite right, too. Why should he trust him after everything he put him through? A fresh wave of guilt washes over him as he thinks back to morgue. What he did to Sherlock was unforgivable. Sherlock was already putting his life on the line to get through to him, and he beat him within an inch of his life. Sherlock almost died as a direct result of his actions, but then he was immediately willing to put John’s life above his own and his brother’s when Eurus was playing her sick game. After all of that, Sherlock welcomed him back into his home with a screaming infant, even though it was obvious it was an imposition. Why? He didn’t deserve it.

The alcohol mixed with guilt turn John’s stomach, and before he knows it, he’s heaving in the toilet.

He’s had some very unpleasant nights in the past few years, but this one is definitely close to the top of the list. Mostly, because it’s all his own doing. 

He hears his phone buzz again, after taking a few seconds to collect himself, he picks up the phone.

3 missed calls and 5 texts from Molly.

**What is going on between you and Sherlock?**

**I know it’s not my business, but I’m really worried.**

**Please John, he’s really scared me. He said he was saying goodbye to Rosie.**

**You know what happened last time.**

**I’m calling Greg.**

"Fuck.” John whispers to himself before punching the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

John hits Molly’s name on the screen and dials her back.

“John? What the hell?” Molly says.

“Did you call Greg? If you didn’t, don’t. I can phone Mycroft if it’s a danger night.” John tries to keep his voice as even as possible as he flexes his hand, ignoring the few drops of blood that land on the tile floor.

Molly doesn’t respond for a moment. “Are you drunk?” She asks hesitantly.

“Just… What’s happened?” John worries he might be sick again.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, Sherlock came over and was acting really strange.” She frets, “He said you had a falling out and that he wanted to say goodbye to Rosie.” John’s stomach turns and he tastes bile. “Whatever this is, he nearly died the last time you cut him out of your life, John.”

“I’m not cutting him out!”

“I said I would babysit Rosie, not the pair of you.” She says with an edge to her voice that he’s only heard twice before. “Phone him. I’m really worried.”

She was right. “Yeah. Right… Sorry. I’ll just… Bye, Molly.” He hangs up the phone and takes a few steadying breaths. Between being sick and the stress he has been internalizing for the last 2 hours, John’s exponentially more sober than he was when he came home.

He really has been doing a piss poor job at being Sherlock’s friend. Sherlock’s done so much for he and Rosie in the past few weeks, and now he’s gone and made it seem like he’s ungrateful and to top it all off, after John’s outburst tonight, he clearly thinks that John cares so little about him that he’s going to cut him out of his life. Again.

John sighs and dials Sherlock, but it rings through to voicemail. Brilliant _._ John thinks with heavy sarcasm and the leans his head back against the tile wall. _Just brilliant._

* * *

Sherlock walks quickly through the park. He knows if he goes to any of his normal spots to seek out a fix, Mycroft could intervene and that’s the last thing he wants to deal with tonight. He stops off and grabs a bottle of scotch from a store on the way. Not ideal, but it would keep Mycroft from prying and allow him the escape he needed tonight.

As he slips through the door of the abandoned building a few miles off from Baker Street, he feels his phone vibrate.

It’s John.

Though it goes against all his instincts, he slips the phone back into his pocket and doesn’t answer. Whatever kind of olive branch he’s trying to extend in the interest of remaining amenable, Sherlock’s not interested.

He opens the bottle of scotch and takes a long swig, choking a bit at the burn of the alcohol, but he continues to drink, attempting to just get it over with. After he’s downed about half the bottle, he puts the cap back on it and slides down the wall, putting his head in his hands. He feels the same panic he was feeling at Baker Street wash over him.

He lights a cigarette willing the alcohol to take effect quickly so he can stop the screaming in his head all the while he feels the tears slide down his face. Mycroft was right, and he was, once again, completely and utterly alone.

This was different than before though. There wasn’t a single traumatic event or action that caused the rift like when Mary died. Whatever was causing John to be so desperate to leave was something Sherlock did entirely on his own, though he had no idea what it was, which admittedly made it so much worse. That coupled with the fact that Sherlock hadn’t even considered that he himself might be the issue until John’s outburst tonight made everything shockingly clear to him. 

John had always been his beacon, the one piece of consistency that kept him right. Of all the certainties in the world, that John would always be at his side used to be one of the surest, but things hadn’t been quite right since he returned from Eastern Europe, and had gotten even worse after Mary died. Nowadays, every interaction they had was so… Cautious. Sherlock had assumed that it was because they were just trying to find their footing after all that had changed, but it seems as though it had been more than that. Much more.

Deep down, Sherlock knew Mary dying was his fault. His recklessness had directly resulted in her death, and though John had said otherwise, he couldn’t help but doubt that John could ever forgive him for her death. That coupled with the constant threat that hangs over their head daily explains why the change in John became so noticeable in the hospital.

Sherlock’s recklessness and the work were not conducive to a safe and happy life for John and Rosie, no matter how much effort he put in. No wonder John was so anxious to get away from him. Sherlock was always going to be a liability in their lives, and John, as usual, was just trying to do the right thing.

There was nothing to be done then it seems.

He fishes his phone from his pocket, flinching at the bright light of the screen as his vision swims from the alcohol.

He opens a text to Mycroft

**I need a favor. - SH**

* * *

John is in the kitchen making coffee though it feels a bit odd to be making coffee at this hour. He knew some strong caffeine was going to be the easiest way to sober up and remain awake enough to talk and apologize to Sherlock as soon as he got home.

John hears his phone buzz. Thinking it's finally Sherlock responding to the various times he tried to call him, he picks up the phone and stares at it in confusion that quickly fades to panic as he opens his email.

**From: Sherlock Holmes >**

**To: John Watson >**

Today at 22:52

Dr. Watson,

Given the new information revealed in our recent discussion, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging some assistance for you to better expedite the moving process. Unfortunately, I have been called on a rather pressing case and will be unavailable to see you off. Mycroft, however, assures me that his people will be more than suitable and will arrive first thing in the morning.

Yours Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes


	7. Chapter 7

He reads over the email three times. He knew Sherlock better than anyone, the cold impersonal tone in the email cut him deeper than any nasty name calling could have. But Sherlock knew that of course. These were not words thrown together in the haste of rage, these were words crafted with a surgeon’s precision meant to wound. It reminded him so much of his own letter to Sherlock not that long ago. He sniffs and looks at the ceiling. He has had his life intertwined with the detective’s for 6 years, he’s not going to let his best friend cut him out of his life like he was no more than an acquaintance. And not via email. Regardless of how poorly Sherlock thinks John has been behaving, he should at least have the decency to kick him out of his home face to face.

Without wasting another moment, he dials Sherlock’s phone. It rings and rings before going to voicemail. So his phone’s on at least. He hits dial again, hoping that the fast redial will be enough to get the detective to answer. Still goes to voicemail. _Third time’s a charm_ , John thinks as he hits the green call button. After another send to Sherlock’s voicemail, John sighs in frustration. “Sod this,” he mutters as he types out a text.

**Dr. Watson?**

**Seriously, Sherlock?**

He waits a few more moments, feeling angrier than he has about the whole ordeal the longer he waits. After a minute of no response, he sends another text.

**Is that how it is now? You’re just going to treat me like someone you barely know?**

John stares at the screen as if willing Sherlock to respond to him. He feels his pulse quicken as the ellipsis indicating Sherlock typing appear. They appear and disappear a few times before John feels his phone vibrate.

**Isn’t that rather accurate? - SH**

That felt like a punch in the gut. So, he’s committed to this then. Effective tactic, and definitely the one that would hurt the most. _Unacceptable,_ John thinks.

John calls again, letting it ring until I gets to voicemail, knowing Sherlock is sitting there staring at the screen, actively avoiding the call.

**Sherlock, answer your bloody phone.**

**I have a pressing case to a tend to. - SH**

**You’re lying.**

John texts back quickly, noticing the typo from the detective. Sherlock never makes typos. God, what kind of mess is he in?

**Last thing you were working on was the Marone case, and I know you didn’t get a new one because you didn’t text me about one while I was out.**

John dials Sherlock again, anxiously picking at a loose thread on his jumper as the tones cut off into the voicemail. John slams his fist down on the arm of his chair, wincing as he knocks open one of the cuts from hitting the wall earlier in the night. His anger begins to dissipate into concern and frustration. Sherlock’s almost certainly in a right state, though he has no clue what that might be, and he could easily be in danger.

**Please come home.**

John stares at the screen for a few seconds before typing out another text.

**I’ll leave first thing in the morning, whatever you want. I just want to make sure you’re safe.**

**Please, Sherlock?**

Another call. John pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a frustrated sigh.

**I can just keep calling until you pick up.**

**I can simply turn my phone off. - SH**

**If you were going to do that, you would have done it already.**

_If you really wanted to be left alone, that’s exactly what you’d have done._ John thinks to himself as he stares at the phone, waiting on a response.

**Please come home.**

Another call, though this one goes to voicemail much faster. It’s been declined.

**I’ll come back to Baker Street if you stop with the incessant calls. - SH**

John doesn’t miss that Sherlock said ‘Baker Street' rather than ‘home’, but nonetheless, he’s agreed to come back. John wastes little time typing out a quick response.

**Deal.**

He sets his phone down on the table next to his chair and puts his head in his hands. This was going to be a long night.


	8. Chapter 8

“Oi! Oi!! Hello!?” A shout startles Sherlock awake. Where is he? A car? A cab. Shouting. Ah. The driver. He blinks a few times to orient himself. “We’re here.” The driver continues impatiently. Sherlock reaches in his pocket for cash to pay the driver, not bothering to count out exact change and stumbles out of the car.

Baker Street. That was good. Baker Street was good. He reaches for the door and freezes, suddenly remembering the events of the night, namely why he’s drunk and thinking so sluggishly. He shouldn’t be here, he’s not ready to face this yet. Why had he even agreed to come back? What a rubbish idea.

He sees a flicker of light on the street from the corner of his eye. He follows it to the window of the flat, where he sees the curtain shift. Brilliant. So, John knows he’s back; no point in trying escape again now. He takes two more steadying breaths.

Sherlock reaches up with a tentative hand and touches the knocker on the door in front of him. He closes his eyes and bites down on his lower lip as he straightens the knocker. “Into battle,” he mutters to himself before squaring his shoulders and walking through the door.

It takes more effort than usual to scale the stairs into the flat, mostly due to the spinning in his head, though with what he knew he was about to face, he was grateful he wasn’t going to have to do it sober.

Sherlock enters the flat to see John cross-armed in the living room, staring at the door expectantly. Sherlock makes a point to not reach his eyes.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John says heavily. “Are you okay?” He pauses. “What did you take?”

Sherlock laughs sarcastically, already poised to be on the defensive for this conversation. “Oh, please. If you’re allowed to drink scotch, so am I.”

“I—“ John starts. “Fair enough.” He seems at a loss for words. Even as drunk as Sherlock is right now, the tension in the room is painful and his resolve to take it in stride is quickly wavering.

“Right, well. I’m going to bed.” Sherlock says with a turn with more flair than strictly necessary. His coat spins around him. Ah. He’d forgotten to take it off downstairs.

“Sherlock, wait.” He felt his heart beat in his throat. So they were doing this now after all. “I’m sorry,” the doctor continued. As uncomfortable as Sherlock was feeling right now, he couldn’t doubt the sincerity he heard. Somehow that made it worse.

“What for?” Sherlock spits back with feigned innocence and a shrug. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” He’s much less successful with keeping the fake light tone on the second bit.

“No, it does! Look, I’m sorry, I never intended for things to get this out of hand.” John says, trying desperately to get his point across. "I didn’t realize how much we were inconveniencing you by being back here until yesterday-“

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock interrupts, a with a deep furrow of his brow, his pretenses gone. Damned alcohol is making his brain sluggish. John isn’t making any sense. What does he mean inconveniencing? That’s not where this conversation was going.

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath before continuing. “When Marone… drugged you. You told me. You didn’t mean to, but you did.” He sounds… guilty?

Sherlock blinks twice. “Though I am by no means at my best in the current moment, and wasn’t yesterday either,” he stumbles over the words a bit, “I can assure you, I did not.”

“I should have realised without you having to spell it out for me. Not only having to completely change your lifestyle when it comes to experiments in the flat, but on top of that, having a screaming toddler vying for attention, which is distracting and… I didn’t realize we were imposing—“

“You keep saying that! Why? I’m telling you that’s not true. Why do you think that’s true?” Sherlock shouts.

“You said it! You said _specifically_ ‘There’s not enough space, you can have Baker Street!’ John huffs.

“What?” Sherlock says flatly. "That’s… That’s what’s caused all this?” Sherlock waves his hands around dramatically, causing his coat to swirl around him again as he stumbles a bit from the motion. “I know I’ve called you an idiot before, but this… This surpasses my expectations, really…” Sherlock chuckles darkly.

“Excuse me?”

“John, you see, but-“

“If you say ‘I see, but don’t observe’, I’m going to lose it, Sherlock.” John crosses his arms and stares at the detective.

“This, John. Exactly this. _This_ is what I was trying to avoid.” Sherlock looks up and meets John’s eyes for the first time since he had come back to Baker Street tonight. They’re rimmed with red around the edges, with the blood vessels much more noticeable than usual, but still focused intently on him. “There’s not enough space here. Rosie will need her own room eventually, and _this_ was always going to happen. I’ve been worrying about what we would do when that happened because I didn’t want you both to leave.” Sherlock snaps his mouth shut, concerned he’s already said too much.

John gapes. “I… I thought you wanted us to leave.” He says.

“Very much the opposite, in fact.” Sherlock pauses for a moment and notices the marks on John’s hand that were decidedly not there when he came come from the pub this evening, he meets John’s eyes again and sees nothing other than the havoc he’s caused the person he cares most about in the world. He can’t keep doing this. Sherlock takes in deep breath and continues. “Even if it was a misunderstanding, it doesn’t change things. The lack of space is still a problem. I am still a liability, so we should probably just proceed and get it over with—“

“Hang on, what?” John says with alarm. “What do you mean you’re a liability?”

Sherlock huffs. “Come on, John. You must see it. I thought that’s why you were so desperate to get away from me. It’s not safe around me, John and it never will be. Look at you, you look like hell —“

“Oh, you’re one to talk right now.” John interjects.

“— and I may be quite drunk, but I know for a fact your hand wasn’t injured when I left earlier.” John looks down at the carpet, shifting his arms to hide his injured hand. “It’s a simple truth, John. I leave a path of destruction everywhere I go, one you’ve been caught in before, and it’s for the best for everyone if remain alone, where I cannot hurt those I care about.” He’s definitely said too much, but it felt oddly comforting to reveal just a glimpse of his secrets. It hardly mattered after this anyway.

“So, I just don’t get a say in this?” Sherlock can hear the hurt leaking into John’s voice. “You’re just going to decide that you know what’s best for me? I thought we established that that was a terrible idea when you played dead for 2 years.” His usual anger about the time Sherlock was away was no where to be found. John takes a step towards Sherlock, but Sherlock matches it with a step backwards. “Sherlock, I can’t… I can’t do this on my own.” Sherlock feels a pang in his chest at that.

“And I can’t be at fault for one of your deaths too, John.” His response came out too loud. Somehow this was easier when thought that John wanted nothing to do with him. He felt his eyes stinging. This was not going according to plan whatsoever. He stares down at the pattern on the rug.

“Sherlock, we’ve discussed this. Mary’s death isn’t your fault.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t, and you need to stop thinking that it is. Mary made her choice, just like I made mine. I choose to be here because I know that I would be much worse off anywhere else. The only reason I was going to leave was because I thought you wanted me to leave.”

“I don’t _want_ you to leave.”

“Great! So can we be done with the fighting?”

“It doesn’t—“ Sherlock begins to protest.

“Can we be done?” His eyes plead with Sherlock.

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. “I suppose.” He says finally.

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” John breathes a sigh of relief.

A silence hangs in the air between them. Sherlock expects him to say something else, but no comments come. He takes a moment to look at the doctor. His injured hand still obscured, but the redness in his eyes combined with the dark circles underneath them seem much more prominent than before.

“You really do look like hell.” Sherlock states matter of factly.

John throws his head back and laughs, “So do you.”

At that, Sherlock smirks. That’s probably true. He’s probably in a right state. He’d been prepared for his world as he knew it to crumble before his very eyes, and must have looked like it.

“I’m going to bed.” The detective says, feeling slightly self-conscious at the sudden scrutiny. “Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closes the door and breathes a palpable sigh of relief.


End file.
